


in plain sight

by autumncolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, POV Outsider, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29978274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumncolour/pseuds/autumncolour
Summary: The video is sent anonymously.It works its way through the bowels of the FBI and lands in Agent Henriksen’s inbox at 3:15 PM one Friday afternoon. It’s accompanied by a note:Aren’t these the boys you’ve been tracking? Maybe don’t watch right after lunch; it’s not pretty.Agent Henriksen's first real look at the serial killer Winchesters. Prequel toin screaming color.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	in plain sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unhappy_matt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/gifts).



* * *

The video is sent anonymously.

It works its way through the bowels of the FBI and lands in Agent Henriksen’s inbox at 3:15 PM one Friday afternoon. It’s accompanied by a note: _Aren’t these the boys you’ve been tracking? Maybe don’t watch right after lunch; it’s not pretty._

Henriksen glances at the half-eaten sandwich on his desk. Well. He’s got a stomach of steel. He copies the video into a folder labelled ‘ _The Winchester brothers_ ’ and clicks play.

A blurry shot of something red. _Blood_ , is Henriksen’s first thought—but no, it’s just a blood-red shirt, someone’s midriff filling the frame as they fiddle with the camera. The picture shudders, there’s a muttered curse, and then the camera’s focus adjusts automatically as the person—white male, maybe thirty, short brown hair, light stubble, chiseled features—takes a step back and peers at the camera with a concentrated frown. He seems to like what he sees; his mouth curves into a sinister smile, and then he’s straightening and walking out of the frame, and the camera re-focuses on—

Fully visible in the middle of the frame, there’s a man tied to a chair. White, tall and fit, maybe mid-twenties, although it’s more difficult to tell with the long-ish brown hair half covering his face. Torn jeans and a white t-shirt. His bare feet are tied to the chair’s front legs with lengths of rope, his arms are pulled back and—the diagonal angle makes it hard to see, but likely—tied together at the wrists behind the back of the chair. The grey-brown floor beneath him looks like concrete, as does the wall behind. The location is likely a cellar.

“Are you ready, Sammy?”

The question comes from off-screen. The man in the chair lifts his head. He’s pretty, wide innocent eyes and spots of color dancing high on his sharp cheekbones.

“Dean,” the man says, his tone desperate. “You don’t have to do this.”

Humorless laughter from off-screen. “Oh, but I think I do.”

There’s a sound like metal scraping against stone, and the man in the chair—Sam Winchester?—flinches. “You _don’t_ ,” he says. “Dean, you don’t—you don’t _want_ to do this.”

_What the devil is going on?_

Henriksen pauses the video to pull up a file of pictures of the Winchester brothers, the few he’s managed to find. School photos, mostly, but yes—the men in the video are most definitely Sam and Dean Winchester. The former tied to the chair, the latter…sharpening a knife, if Henriksen knows anything about anything. He presses play again, leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

On the screen, the (suspected) serial killer brothers Henriksen’s been trying to catch for the better part of a year resume whatever the hell it is they’re doing. Dean walks back into frame, and—yes, he knew it—points a gleaming fillet knife at Sam.

“I could say that this is gonna hurt me more than it’s gonna hurt you.” Dean places the tip of the knife against Sam’s throat. “But that would be a lie.”

The knife is really sharp. Dark red blood seeps out from under the blade even before Sam realizes he’s been cut. When the pain does catch up with him, he jerks his head back and makes a sound like a surprised puppy. Dean smiles. He presses the knife in deeper, and for a second Henriksen thinks Dean’s just going to cut his brother’s throat and that’ll be it. But no. Dean just traces a shallow cut down one side, then flips the knife around and does the same on the other side.

Sam is letting out small, panicky whimpers that make Henriksen’s insides twist into an ugly knot. The man is a giant—six-foot-four according to the intel—but tied to that chair in that dingy basement he looks small and vulnerable. He looks like a little kid, scared out of his mind, because—

Because he’s being tortured by his brother. Who by all accounts _is_ a torturer, but—

Henriksen’s been following a string of bizarre torture-murders, and so far all the evidence is pointing towards the perps being a) a pair of brothers, who b) grew up in an abusive and unstable environmet, and c) work as a tight-knit unit. The Winchester brothers, previously wanted for lesser offenses like credit card fraud and breaking and entering, fit that description to a tee. The profile he’s been compiling indicates they’re codependent as all hell and more than willing to kill for each other.

What is happening in this video makes no goddamned sense.

As if sensing Henriksen’s confusion, Dean glances at the camera before re-focusing his attention on his brother.

“Why am I doing this to you, Sammy?” he asks. His voice is almost gentle, and so quiet Henriksen has to turn up the volume. “Can you tell me?”

Sam lets out a quiet sob. “Because I tipped off the police.”

“And?”

“Dean. Please—“ Sam gasps as Dean cuts him again. “Because…because…” A trail of blood runs down from his neck and soaks into the white fabric, shockingly crimson.

“Because what, baby brother?” Dean cups Sam’s face in a sick parody of care.

Perversely, Sam leans into the touch. “Because…I tried to run away,” he says in a whisper.

“Because you tried to run.” Dean nods. He looks pleased, like a teacher whose idiot student has finally grasped that one plus one equals two. “Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you ever tried to do that?”

Sam nods, sniffles. “Yeah. Dean—“

“But did you listen?”

Sam dips his head as if ashamed.

“Did you?” Dean prompts.

“No.”

“No, you didn’t.” Dean shakes his head, gently disappointed. “Which means that this”—he grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, pulls his head back to a painful angle—“is all your fault.”

Sam is frozen in place as Dean draws the tip of the knife across the fragile skin of his clavicle. Blood oozes from the cut, and Henriksen can see how Sam quivers with pain, how he tries to keep his chest from heaving with his panicked breaths so as not to drive the knife deeper. Then Dean grabs his shirt and cuts it open in two swift slashes, pushing the torn remains as far down Sam’s bound arms as they go. He trails the knife lower, over Sam’s sternum, his stomach, this time only barely breaking skin—and suddenly Henriksen feels ill.

The gesture looks like a caress. It’s unmistakably sensual. A tease, a promise, a taste of what’s to come—only it’s done with a sharp knife. To a man tied to a chair. As part of blatant torture—by Dean Winchester, the big brother, to Sam, his little brother—

Henriksen pushes his lunch out of sight. Violence he can stomach, but this—this.

He’s going to throw up.

The knife stops at the waistband of Sam’s jeans. Then Dean pushes its tip under the fabric. Sam flinches. “Dean,” he says, “What are you doing?” It’s straight out of a bad porno. Henriksen would laugh if he wasn’t so horrified.

Dean, it seems, has no problem laughing at his brother’s terrified question. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, underlining his words by dragging the tip of the knife over the denim of Sam’s fly. He drops to his knees, and it should look like supplication, but it doesn’t. “At first I thought I might have to kill you,” he says. “But it turns out I’m too soft. Imagine that. So I’m just gonna teach you a lesson instead. One you won’t ever forget.”

A tear rolls down Sam’s cheek. “No. Dean, please—“

“You should be grateful.”

“I am, Dean, I am. Just—please, whatever it is you’re planning, don’t do it, please—“

“Shhh.” Dean shifts his grip on the knife, points it straight at Sam’s stomach. “Now, be a good boy and stay still, if you wanna keep your insides on the inside.”

He pries Sam’s fly open, tugs the lapels out of the way, and—Henriksen almost looks away on reflex—Sam’s cock rolls out, impossibly, irrationally half hard. It looks soft and vulnerable next to the gleaming knife. _What is it with criminals always going commando_ , Henriksen wonders, a little hysterically. His own balls draw up in sympathetic fear of what Dean might be planning. On the screen, Sam’s expression tells he’s probably thinking along the same lines.

The knife is on the move again. Dean drags the tip of it through Sam’s pubes and along the length of his cock. A drop of blood wells up near the base, and Sam whimpers.

“Whoops,” Dean says, looking up at his brother with a lazy smile. “That was careless of me.” He leans down and—oh, _God_ —licks the blood away. Sam’s legs flex against the restraints, and Dean tuts. “No sudden movements, Sammy. So many big veins in this area. Wouldn’t take much to bleed you dry.” He makes another shallow cut, deliberately this time, and again lowers his mouth to it. Sam manages to keep almost still. He’s flushed, breathing hard and fast, and if not for the bloody cuts and the wild terror in his eyes, Henriksen might think he _was_ looking at home-made porn.

When Dean comes up, there’s a smear of blood on his chin. He drags his hand over it, then looks at his blood-covered fingers and offers them up for Sam. “Come on,” he says, when Sam just stares at them in horror. “Don’t play stupid.”

Sam opens his mouth and Dean shoves his fingers in, quick and deep. It makes Sam gag. More tears roll down his cheeks as he sucks on the fingers with desperate enthusiasm, as if he might, by this small act of service, placate his crazy brother enough to be spared whatever horror Dean has in store for him.

“Good boy,” Dean says when he pulls his hand away. He pats Sam’s cheek, leaving behind a smear of spit and blood. “Almost made me consider just having you suck my cock, call us even with that.”

Sam looks away, his cheeks burning.

“But nah,” Dean continues. “Who knows, you might bite. So…” He grabs Sam’s jeans and yanks them down, hard. “I’m just gonna go with the original plan of cutting off your balls.”

Sam lets out a terrified moan. “No, Dean—Please. I’m so sorry. I’ll be good. I won’t leave you, I promise—I’ll do anything you want, just. Please don’t.”

He struggles against the restraints, but in vain—Dean’s done a good job with those knots. Sam’s trashing only helps Dean pull his jeans further down, though he can’t quite get them out of the way, not with how Sam’s thighs are spread open. But Dean still has the knife, and as Sam continues to plead and beg, he uses it to cut through the denim in quick, careless slashes. Judging by the way Sam keeps flinching, the knife must be connecting with his skin—and sure enough, when Dean pulls the tattered remains aside, rivulets of blood are running down Sam’s inner thighs.

“Dean, please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything I want, huh?” Dean looks up at his brother, licks his lips.

“Anything,” Sam whispers. His voice is full of heartbreaking hope.

“Fuck.” Dean shakes his head, laughs. “Like I said, I’m way too soft.”

Dean lets the knife drop. He grabs hold of Sam’s hips with both hands and drags his ass over the edge of the chair. The maneuver pulls Sam’s arms and shoulders back into a position that looks supremely uncomfortable. The obvious pain of it makes him gasp, and his legs twitch, like he’s trying to pull his knees together to protect himself.

Dean slaps him hard across the face.

“Don’t you dare try to deny me,” he says. “Not after telling me I can have anything I want.”

Dean shoves his legs apart, and Sam hangs his head, sweaty hair falling to cover his flushed face. His cock is still miraculously half hard, but then—Henriksen adjusts his trousers—the human body is wired in weird ways. Just an involuntary reaction. There’s no way Sam Winchester could actually be getting off on being tortured by his brother.

Sam’s whole body vibrates with tension as Dean takes hold of his balls and pulls them away from his body like he’s still considering cutting them off. His cock twitches and starts to fill out, and Dean runs an experimental finger along the underside. Sam makes that surprised puppy sound again and turns his face away from the camera.

“You ever think,” Dean says, his tone mock-philosophical, “what a fragile thing the penis is?” He grabs the shaft, bends it down until Sam lets out a pained noise. “So easy to break. At least I think so. Maybe I should try?”

Mutely, Sam shakes his head.

“No?” Dean lets Sam’s cock go. “Oh well, there’s always next time.”

He unbuckles his belt, tugs his own cock free. It’s erect, flushed dark, and Dean spits in his hand, rubs the saliva on it. He spits again, reaches between Sam’s thighs and—judging by the way Sam whimpers—shoves his fingers up his brother’s ass with enough force to draw blood.

“Dean—“ Sam’s voice has gone thin and high. “You’re hurting me.”

Dean laughs, a harsh bark of a sound. “I’ve been cutting you up every which way and _now_ you complain I’m hurting you? Would you like that knife up your ass instead? I bet it would slide in smoother.”

“No. Dean—please.”

“That’s right. I love it when you beg.” Dean pulls his fingers out, drags Sam’s hips further down. “Gets me so fucking hard every time.”

_Every time?_ Sweet Jesus, Henriksen hates this man.

Sam cries out as Dean shoves in. For an uncomfortably long time—can’t be more than minute or two, but it feels like eternity—the only thing happening on the screen is Dean fucking his brother in quick, angry thrusts, his grunts mixing with Sam’s pained gasps and echoing off the rough walls. It can’t be that comfortable for Dean, either, the way he’s on his knees between Sam’s outstretched thighs, holding onto the chair for leverage. Sam’s body is bent back in a painful-looking arch, stretched like a crooked bow between the anchor points of his ankles and wrists. His hard cock bounces against his stomach, mercilessly forgotten.

Dean reaches down to pick up the knife, brings it up against Sam’s throat. “You learned your lesson yet, Sammy?”

“Yeah.” Sam sounds wrecked. “Dean, I have. Just please—“

“What have you learned?”

“That I’m…not allowed to leave you. Ever.”

“That’s right, baby brother.” Dean pushes the knife against Sam’s skin and fresh blood drips down his chest. “I’ll kill you rather than let you go.”

Sam lets out a breathy moan. “Oh fuck.”

Dean’s rhythm falters. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry. Please don’t…“ Sam shakes his head. Then he moans again. “Dean. I can’t—“ Is that _laughter_ in his voice? _What the hell? Is he—_ “Fuck. Just like that. Harder.”

“Giving up already, Sammy?” There’s _definitely_ laughter in Dean’s voice as he does what his brother asks and picks up the pace.

_No way. Are they—they can’t be—_

“And here I thought”—Dean is panting now, grinning—“that you’d last at least another couple of minutes.”

“Fuck you, you…” Sam lets his head drop back, his expression rapturous. “Oh—oh…don’t. Shit. Dean. I’m gonna—“

He shoots all over Dean’s shirt and his own mutilated chest, his spunk mixing with the red trails of his blood. The knife clatters to the floor as Dean bows down to lick at the mess. He’s gripping Sam’s waist tight, fucking into him with reckless abandon, groaning and cursing, and then he cries out and goes still—

And Henriksen remembers to breathe.

It’s a porn video. He’s been made to watch a goddamned homemade torture porno by a pair of fucking lunatics. And it’s…The real indignity of it all is—He’s weirdly, nauseatingly aroused.

He wants to throw something hard at something soft.

On the screen Dean is lifting Sam back up into a more comfortable position. Sam is cursing him to hell and back, and Dean is laughing, untying his feet and wrists, and—leaning in to kiss his brother, gently, reverently, like he hasn’t just spent the better part of an hour torturing him. They’re smiling at each other like fucking newlyweds, all shiny and bright and in love. What the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with them?

“Are you really gonna send that?” Sam nods towards the camera.

Dean turns and stares. He purses his lips. “I dunno. What d’you think? Should we?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.” Dean steps up to the camera and looks straight into it. “Guess we should do an official introduction. My name’s Dean Winchester. That’s my brother, Sam.” Behind him Sam gives a small wave. “We’re in the business of killing people, and you, Agent Henriksen, are rightfully trying to track us down. That’s a noble pursuit.”

“Really admirable,” Sam says. He seems wholly unbothered by his injuries.

Dean smiles, slow and sweet. “We just thought we should let you know what you’re up against.”

He reaches for the camera and the video cuts off. Henriksen sits staring at the screen until the worst of his nausea has passed and his dick has shriveled up in shame. He’s never going to get these images out of his head.

These sick fucks must be caught and locked up for life.

But not in the same cell.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> unhappy_matt gave me an awesome prompt and this is the result <3
> 
> This gave me much more trouble than 'in screaming color', maybe because I'm really tiptoeing my personal line of squick and kink here. I don't know. I hope this causes many confused boners.
> 
> I'm really curious to know your reactions, so...if you have spoons, please feed me comments! _*baby bird noises*_


End file.
